After Dark
by nathan-p
Summary: When the Director and Uber-Director team up to execute the By-Half Plan, it falls to, of all people, Jeb to save the world. Unfortunately, he's going to need a little assistance, and with the help of four other Itex rejects, he's off! Now with alt ending.
1. A Horrible Plot

One - A Horrible Plot

It was one in the morning, and I was _still _awake. Again.

Once upon a time, I would have been asleep at such an hour. And not so long ago, I would have been at work.

Now I was lying on the couch, opening my mail, while a late-night movie played on the TV.

I almost trashed the letter right off the bat -- the return address was unfamiliar, and the handwriting was, ew, my sister's.

You may have missed the memo on that one. Let me explain:

I'm the youngest of three kids. My older sister, Marian, and my older brother, Steve, tortured me through our whole childhood. You probably know them better as the Director and the Uber-Director. (Steve _still_ can't spell, it seems.)

Yeah, we kind of don't speak to each other anymore.

Anyway, so I almost binned the letter, but reconsidered. I had nothing better to do. Not at one in the morning.

So I opened it up.

The first thing I saw was that, after thirty years, my sister was still dotting her i's with little hearts. Her printing was still fluid and illegible, though, which didn't fit with the little feminine touch. We hadn't actually spoken to each other in person for years, minus one shouting match a few years back.

It was the usual cold, impersonal letter. _She_ was still in touch with our parents, and reported that Dad still hated my guts and Mom was still so senile she didn't know she _had_ a youngest son -- but I'd bet she remembered Marian and Steve just fine.

Marian ended on a typically snide note, writing that "Steve and I send you our best wishes", in lieu of, say, a pipe bomb. (I'd been grateful for the fact that I was renting a P. O. box when _that_ happened.)

I'd never been happier in my life than the day my family disowned me. I never liked my parents, and I could have cheerfully murdered my older siblings. Although I sometimes missed the dog.

So I snickered, balled both letter and envelope up, and shot it across the room into the wastebasket. (There had been a time when I would have kept it, whether so I could experience the satisfaction of burning the reminder of my siblings to ashes, or so I could pin it to my bulletin board, which is what I'd done as a lonely, underage college student -- before I came to my senses.) Three points.

Now done with my mail (except a few circulars addressed to RESIDENT, which I left on the coffee table for reasons that made sense at the time), I finally felt tired. It was probably the interaction with my sister, which was exhausting even by proxy. So I turned the TV down a little and fell asleep where I was.

I woke up to the news fanfare when my alarm went off, and as usual, fell off the couch before realizing that the alarm was _under_ the couch, and as a result spent five minutes with my arm stuck under the couch looking for the goddamn alarm clock.

By that time, I was _pissed_, not to mention groggy. And my mouth tasted like ass. Well, not ass so much as like I'd licked the carpet, which had a peculiarly vile smell to it. (I would know. There had been more than one morning when I'd woken up with my face planted solidly in it.)

Being that I was awake, I figured I might as well shower, and so I did. By the time I made it back into the living room, I was at least a little more awake than I had been, and in a slightly better mood.

I paused on my way through the living room to the kitchen. It wasn't anything special, but the morning news was on, and I could have _sworn_ I heard the pretty anchorwoman say...

I turned the volume up.

"Marian Janssen of Itexicon Corporation announced today that the major corporation will be conducting a merge with the smaller Cogilium, Incorporated."

Shit.

I knew that Marian worked for Itex, and that Steve ran Cogilium, but really, I'd never imagined they'd go for so _obvious_ a team-up.

To most of the early-morning news watchers, the ensuing five-minute segment would have been a signal to go put some coffee on to boil or change the channel. Like them, I pretty much blanked it out, but for a different reason: I was horrified.

Cogilium, in case you don't know, is a technology-development corporation. They make toys for grownups. Like weapons. All kinds of weapons.

Including biological ones.

I didn't know why Marian wasn't just relying on Itex's own microbiologists for whatever job she needed done, but I counted myself lucky that she'd decided she needed more help -- and help from _Steve_, at that.

I figured it probably had something to do with me.

No, really. Hear me out.

I still had a job -- technically. As far as my work at the School was concerned, I was on extended leave while they decided if they should consider the fact that I was -- if you'll excuse the bragging -- a brilliant scientist as more important than "some family issues".

Man, I was just happy they hadn't put a price on my head. God knew Itex had -- after the incident in Germany, those fuckers were _pissed _at me. Thankfully, Marian had experienced a moment of sadistic genius and decided to call off the hitmen -- hey, I was more useful alive and suffering than dead and angry. (I probably wouldn't have stayed dead for long. Even I have friends.

(Friends with access to highly illegal, _really, really cool_ technology.)

And Steve... well, Steve was still a little behind the curve. OK, so saying that he was the muscle in our sibling trio would be very, very accurate. (I couldn't tell you whether it's me or Marian who's the soul, though. She may be a woman, but I actually _care about people_. Sometimes. Depends on the person, really.)

Or he _had_ been the muscle, before that tragic, tragic pipe bomb accident. (Disregard my tone, please. I may hate my siblings, but not enough to try to blow them up and fail. If you want it done right...)

But I digress. Back to the news.

The reader with a shorter attention span is probably asking why I was in such a distraught state over all this. Why? Because you're so goddamn dumb.

Actually, because I figured that in typical Marian style, she'd gotten frustrated with a lack of results in Itex's work and decided that fuck it, she was calling Steve in to make her a killer virus that would burn itself out after killing half the population of the world.

Hey, that's what I'd have been doing if I were her.

Actually, cancel that thought. If I were her, I'd be considering the problem of body disposal first. Three billion corpses not only stinks to high heaven, it's a health hazard.

I kind of doubt she was considering that. She'd never been the type for planning.

Come to think of it, none of us were.

But. I brought myself back to the moment. I wasn't going to just stand around and _let_ her destroy the world. In the finest Batchelder sibling tradition, I was going to stop her from carrying out her plans, mock her as much as I could, and hopefully make her cry.

First, I was going to need accomplices.

I know. You're going to guess that I called the flock.

Fat.

Fucking.

Chance.

For one thing, Max has caller ID, and I am not the kind of person whose calls she'd answer, much less return.

And for the other thing, if I wanted _mindless destruction_, I would call the flock up.

I just wanted to stop my brother and sister from taking over the world.

Not to burn their house down, injure bystanders, and probably kill a few puppies along the way.

So. The flock was right out. Who else could I call?

For some reason, a few years back, the School had decided to put out a company directory. Or perhaps I was remembering wrong and it was the employees who'd put it together. Whatever.

The point is, I had an index, however old it was, of current and former School employees who _might_ be willing to lend me a hand.

I grabbed a pencil and went to work on it.

I crossed out all the names I knew wouldn't call me back. For whatever reason. And then the ones who I knew weren't working at the School anymore. Obviously.

That left about thirty. I couldn't call that many people in the time I had -- I figured that to extract maximum effect from my ill-formed (nonexistent, actually) plan, I needed to get my ass in gear and get moving _soon_.

So I crossed out the ones that were, as far as I knew, perfectly content with their jobs. Which left about ten. Damn.

And in a stunning display of coincidence, the likes of which I hadn't seen since my last college English class (where we had read Dickens), _that_ was the moment the School called me.

Unsurprisingly, it was a secretary.

"Hi, may I speak to Jeb, please?"

I recognized the voice. Tiffany. Blonde. Twenty. Braces.

"This is he."

"Oh, hey Jeb. We just wanted to know if you were going to come in today."

Huh?

"Uh, yeah, of course I am."

"Great."

She hung up on me, leaving me to a moment's pondering. They'd never called me before.

Something was fishy in Denmark.

After the world's fastest drive to work (OK, who am I shitting, it took two hours), I screeched down the long dirt drive to the School. Not that I didn't enjoy driving around in the desert (there are no speed limits on private dirt roads, which infinitely thrilled the sixteen-year-old boy in me), but I was both excited and terrified to find out just what they wanted from me.

At the security checkpoint, the guard actually did a double-take when I handed him my ID. "No way," he said.

I smiled tensely. "Way." Yeah, I still speak bored twentysomething. What's it to you?

"Nice to have you back," he said. "You'll need to renew that next month."

"OK," I said. He handed me my ID back, I rolled up the window, and I drove on forward.

I don't know how it's possible, but somehow, under that wide expanse of clear blue sky, I felt claustrophobic.

It was probably the stress.

I hurried in through the main doors, past yet another security checkpoint (at this one, thankfully, the guard didn't care enough to ask for my ID, trusting in the other guard and twenty miles of desert to keep out the riffraff) to the reception desk.

No, I don't know why a guarded institution _in the middle of the __Mojave Desert_ has a reception desk. Ask the higher-ups. They'd probably know. (Yes, surprising as it may seem, I don't run the School. Other people do. Would it surprise you to know that they're Chinese? China runs a lot of things these days.)

But Tiffany was still on desk, and she looked... _pleased_ to see me.

Which totally made my day. Like I was going to tell her that.

"Uh, hi," I said, standing awkwardly in front of the desk.

"Doctor Batchelder!" she said, turning from the computer to me and looking genuinely happy to see me. Now _that_ was a weird feeling.

"You can call me Jeb," I said. It's been my nickname since fourth grade. Don't ask why. There's no story behind it.

"Right this way, sir," she said, getting up from the desk and walking off down the hall.

I followed her.

She passed the conference rooms we normally used and went to the entrance of a wing I _technically_ wasn't allowed to enter.

I figured that hey, I could always say I'd just been following directions, Nazi little scamp that I am.

She motioned for me to unlock the door with my keycard, and -- to my surprise -- it worked. She smiled, ushered me inside, and left. (Why? Receptionists don't have clearance to enter the animal testing wing.)

Once I stepped inside, it was like the clock had been turned back ten or so years. Same white walls and tiled ceiling, same clean tile floor... same banks of cages along the walls.

I only got a few seconds to reminisce, though, before someone took my elbow and escorted me firmly through the wing.

Yes, to the security substation.

No, not so they could fire me.

I stepped into the small office, where it was clearly present day, from the sleek new laptop sitting on the desk to the monitors hanging on the wall.

The guard unlocked the unassuming door at the back of the office and walked me through.

Would it surprise you to know there was a room back there?

OK, so strictly speaking it wasn't a "room". It was the staff lounge. But it hardly saw any real use anymore -- personnel working in the animal testing wing often preferred to take their breaks either outside or in a different wing of the building, no matter how far they had to walk.

Waiting in the lounge were four other people, all looking at me expectantly.

One of them rose to his feet immediately and went to shake my hand. Michael Duncan, I remembered his name was. The last time I'd seen him, he'd been a tech working in this wing.

Man, how times had changed since the last time I'd been down there.

I shook his hand.

"Take a seat, please," he said.

I did, at one of the chairs around the table.

"We have," he began, "a special assignment for you."

_That_ sounded ominous.

"I'm sure you heard about Itex's merger with Cogilium, and I know you know what that means for the world."

I nodded. "Yes sir."

Since _when_ had the School split from Itex?

I definitely hadn't been consulted on that one, but I heartily applauded the decision. We'd only had to associate with regional representatives, but it still made me uneasy as hell to have my _sister_ holding power over me.

"So," he said brightly, "we've gathered a team of the School's best and brightest..."

They didn't look it. One of them was the typical weedy nerd, one a short woman with a deliberately sweet look on her face, and one a tall, dark scowler who looked like he'd be better placed in some avant-garde art film, not here.

"... and they're going to help you prevent the merger."

For a moment I struggled with the urge to swear a blue streak. Apparently my protection against telepathy was wearing off.

That or there was a camera in my apartment.

Just for peace of mind, I was going with "camera".

"By any means possible."

Was he _deliberately_ trying to make me jump at the opportunity?

"All right," he said. "I leave the rest in your capable hands."

With that, he left, and oddly, the security guard stayed.

As soon as he was out the door, the woman got up from her position slumped in an armchair.

She was _tiny_. Not more than five foot four -- even in _heels_, I would guess.

"Introduction time, guys," she said, and got herself a cup of coffee from the machine.

Ah. I'd figured her for a caffeine fiend.

The weedy nerd one spoke up first; he was sprawled on the old couch in the corner, and he took up the whole thing. Six foot, I would guess.

"Donovan Michaels," he said. "Lab tech."

The tall dark one went next, looking fashionably sullen. "Jonathan Leigh. Spelled l-e-i-g-h. Microbiologist and ladies."

The woman introduced herself next. "Isabelle Smalls. Izzy to you. Geneticist."

The security guard, of all people, spoke up. "Crane Johnson. Security."

"OK," I said. "Roll call's nice and all, but... honestly, why you guys?"

Izzy snorted. "We're expendable." She indicated the four of them with her hand. "The three of us are crazy, Crane's big and dumb, and _you_ are a fallen angel. They need the work done, but to be frank? They don't want to lose anyone valuable in the line of fire."

"_Ouch_," said Jonathan. "Now that's just a bit cruel, Isabelle. All of us are heavily medicated," he added, looking directly at me.

"But they still don't want us working with anything too dangerous," said the tall one -- damn, I'd forgotten his name already. "I mean, just pointing it out."

"We may be heavily medicated," Izzy cut in, "but that doesn't mean we aren't smart."

"Except Crane," the tall one said.

The man he was talking about crossed his arms. "Hey, just because I don't have a doctorate," he said softly, "doesn't mean I'm not smart."

"We know that, Crane," said Izzy. "Don's just kind of in a funk today."

Ah. Don. That was his name. I'd probably have to make flash cards.

"So, bossman," said Jonathan, who was artistically draped over an armchair like a giant, human cat. "Do you have a plan yet, or are we just winging it?"

"I've never been much for plans," I began.

He grinned. "Excellent. I _like_ the part where we plan on the fly."

"I like having a plan," I shot back.

"OK," he said. "Hit me."

"We're supposed to prevent the merger," I said, thinking on my feet for the first time in _way_ too long.

"The question is how," Jonathan interrupted.

"I _know_," I snapped.

"We chase them down and persuade them not to," Don pointed out, quite reasonably, I thought.

"How are we going to find them?" Jonathan said. "If we don't know where they are, we can't persuade them."

"We track them," said Crane, who had, as I'm sure you've noticed, been mostly silent throughout the conversation.

"How?" Jonathan asked.

"Don's catgulls."

"OK. But how do the catgulls find them?"

"Catgulls?" I asked.

"I'll have to introduce you," Don said, grinning.

"Back on track, guys," Izzy said, interrupting.

"We _are_ on track," snapped Jonathan. "What are you, my mother?"

"Um, I have a plan," said Don shyly.

"Let's hear it, kid," said Izzy.

"Maximum's flock always gets tracked down by Erasers, no matter what," he said, "and they're attracted to wherever they can make the most trouble."

"So we steal company property, sic it on more company property, and assume we're finding what we're after?" Jonathan asked. "I _like_ it. Just crazy enough to _fail completely_."

"He has a point," I said, and they all turned to look at me. "It'll work." I turned to Crane and continued, "Are there any squads of Erasers slated for termination?"

"Yeah," he said.

"All right," I said. "We'll take them, then."

Jonathan stared at me, and then started laughing. "You, my friend," he said, "are a genius."

"So does this mean we get to borrow a van?" Don piped up.

"Two, actually," I said. "One for us, one for the Erasers."

"We have to bring the catgulls," he said.

"Give me one good reason," said Jonathan impatiently, checking his watch.

"Even the Erasers with wings are no good at tracking in the air," he said. "Catgulls may not have long-distance range, but they're good at what they do. And I've been meaning to field-test them like this."

"Good with me," said Jonathan. "You cool with it, bossman?" he asked me.

"Yeah," I said.

"So when do we leave?" asked Don.

"Can we be on the road by two?" I asked.

"Yeah, no problem," said Crane. "I'll go give the Erasers their orders."

"And I'll go get the catgulls ready to go," added Don.

The two of them hurried out of the room together. It was kind of a funny contrast -- Crane was the big one, Don the skinny one.

"So I guess it's packing time," said Izzy, leaning on the armchair she'd been occupying when I first entered not that long ago. When she wasn't pacing or mediating a conversation, I noticed, she seemed oddly small.

It was deeply, deeply weird.

"Yeah," I said.

"I'll loan you some clothes," said Jonathan, extracting himself from the armchair. "You look like you're about my size. And I know you don't have time to drive back to your apartment, pack, and get back here."

I blinked. "Are you a mind reader?"

Yeah. Only at the School is such a question _deathly serious_.

He shrugged. "I used to think so, but now I'm not really sure."

There was an awkward silence for a moment before Izzy spoke up.

"All right. I'm going to go pack. Y'all can work that out between yourselves."

Jonathan was out of the room like a shot, and it was up to me to catch up to him.

Luckily, I run fast.


	2. A Ragtag Bunch of Idiots

Two - A Ragtag Bunch of Idiots

The School is located in scenic Fucking Nowhere, California, also known as Death Valley. It's hours from any town of decent size, which means that rather than blow time on commuting every morning, most of the staff choose to live on location in the provided buildings.

This makes commute time a lot faster, and a lot more enjoyable. Most people work long enough that they take the walk from the barracks -- as they'd called them when I lived in them last -- to the main structure at a cool time of day. As in, early morning and late night.

There's a story about an employee at the School who got sent out of the building for some reason in the middle of the day. He stopped, looked up, and exclaimed, "The _sun!_"

So the story goes.

It's almost certainly not true.

Anyway. I was reminded of it because, walking on the path from main building to barracks, there was no one else out there with us. And once we got inside the barracks proper, it was quiet as a college dorm the week before exams, though I noticed quite a few doors with Do Not Disturb signs hung on the handles. Night shift workers. (Of course, in college the signs probably would have been ties or socks around the door handle, and had _entirely_ a different meaning, but I digress.)

I waited politely in the hall while Jonathan rummaged in his room. He came out after a while carrying two small suitcases, and handed me one.

"Those are an old pair," he said, "so go ahead and get them ripped up, damaged, whatever." He glared at me and added, "The shirt is new, though, so if you damage it there's going to be hell to pay."

_Hey, I know a joke that goes like that_, I thought.

"No, that's what happens when Satan goes bald," I said. I wasn't expecting to say it, and you probably weren't expecting to hear it. But where did you _think_ Max got her, ah, impeccable wit from?

Certainly not her mother.

But that's a different subject.

Jonathan looked at me as if I had attempted to summon a dark God, rather than cracked a lame joke. Then understanding dawned over his face.

"Oh. Hell toupee, hell to pay..." He rolled his eyes. "Let's get moving."

We got back to the main building with plenty of time to spare before two o' clock, but believe me, there was no time for us to just relax before we left. I got corralled into helping Don put the catgulls into their travel cages ("because," he explained, "it helps if we release them pretty far away from here. Otherwise they'll just come back home").

Ever put a normal cat in a travel cage?

Imagine that same cat -- scared, furry, and with five pointy ends out of six total -- with _wings_.

Fortunately, the vast majority of them were half-asleep, which merely made it a matter of timing to get them into the cages.

And other than the wings, they _were_ basically just cats, which made them adorable as hell -- and virtually invisible to the casual observer, whereas ridiculously attractive Erasers are more like giant beacons of something fishy going on in Denmark.

Or that's how Don put it, anyway.

Once we had all twenty catgulls safely in their travel cages (and the travel cages in the back of the van), it was almost time to leave. But Don had, apparently, forgotten to put one of the catgulls in its cage -- he was still holding it absently.

"Uh, Don," I began, "I think you've forgotten something?"

He looked at me, then glanced down at the catgull he was holding. "Oh, no," he said. "This is James. He stays with us and, through a telepathic link, tells us what the rest of the pride have found. Gets rid of annoying travel time for the pride when they find something."

Yes, I regularly deal with telepathic cats -- technically, cats whose DNA had been recombined with a little bird DNA.

I'll bet you want my job.

Don grinned at me. "I'll bet you're thinking that's really cool."

I blinked. What the hell had been going on that suddenly everyone employed at the School could read my mind?

"Actually," Don explained, "you just think really loud. Or to be more exact, your face makes it obvious what you're thinking about."

"Was that a 'your face' joke I just heard?" said Jonathan, surprising me by suddenly appearing out of (what seemed like) nowhere.

"No," said Izzy. We were standing in the parking lot out in back of the main building, and she came out of one of the few outside doors, brushing dust off of her shirt.

"Everyone here?" she asked.

"Crane's getting the Erasers together," I said, feeling quite useless. I was _supposed_ to be the leader, but Izzy seemed to be the one in control.

It was kind of cool.

"OK," Izzy said. "I'm driving."

"Shotgun!" said Jonathan.

"Damn," said Don.

"Where's Crane in all this?" I asked.

"Speak of the devil and he shall appear," said Jonathan, as Crane walked out of the building, accompanied by what looked like the most _horrible_ collection of Erasers ever assembled.

They looked...old. I'd never seen that in Erasers before.

And they looked battle-scarred.

"I'm riding with my homies," said Crane, and together with him, the Erasers piled into their van... and promptly drove off. At speed.

"Please, never let him say that again," said Jonathan.

"I hope Crane remembers to let the catgulls go at the right time," Don said wistfully, staring after the van as it receded down the road.

After that, it seemed like there was nothing left to say, and so we, too, got in the van. (Of course, it was a different van.)

Jonathan had called shotgun, and Izzy was driving, which left me and Don in the back.

"If you two start anything, I _will_ turn this van around," she said.

Somehow I got the feeling she was kidding.

As soon as we got out of the parking lot, Don opened his laptop and booted it up.

"_What_ are you going to do with that?" I asked as we bumped over the road to the exit.

"Wait a minute," he said.

I stared past his head and out the window. The School, as I've said, is located in the middle of nowhere, and there are precisely two roads off the grounds. One is relatively nice -- the one you enter by. The other is not so nice -- it's how the Erasers get off the property when they need to.

It would be a hell of a place to kill someone. It's also a hell of a place to have a breakdown.

The laptop finished booting up, and Don clicked a few buttons before spinning it around so that I could see the screen.

I wasn't familiar with the program, but it seemed to be a live feed from some sort of camera that was looking, currently, through the front windshield of a van.

Don spun the laptop back around so that the screen faced him. "It's a live feed from the leader of the Eraser team," he explained. "He has a fake eye, and agreed to let me put a camera in it. We also have sound capability through a mike in his eardrum, but it's a little laggy, and they can phone in to the computer for daily reports, but _that_ feature requires Internet access on at least one end of the connection, so I doubt we'll be using it much."

"Just out of interest," said Jonathan from the front seat, "did you breathe _once_ while saying that?"

"Yes," said Don.

"I was just wondering."

We got out of Death Valley no problem, and stopped in a small town for a quick break, and their Starbucks for our first phone-in from the Erasers.

Of course, we had to buy coffee first.

Don tapped a few keys, and then plugged in a pair of headphones. "Wouldn't want the entire Starbucks to hear us talking," he said by way of explanation.

"So what if we want to talk back to them?" said Jonathan.

"We have a messenger program on this end for situations like this where we're in public," Don said. "We type our answer, the computer runs it through a text-to-speech converter, and they 'hear' our answer spoken. Unfortunately it's pretty buggy, so they don't hear a human voice -- they hear a simulator."

Yes, friends, you heard that right: we were instant-messaging Erasers. In a Starbucks.

I _know_ you want my job now.

Don typed in a test message: "Can you hear me now?"

To my surprise, their message appeared in the messenger window as well: "Yes."

"It can do that?" I asked.

"Yeah," said Don, distracted. "The text-to-speech works both ways. Except they have to speak really clearly so the software will understand them."

"Found anything?" he typed.

"No," came their reply after a pause. "Released catgulls as per your instructions."

"Good," Don sighed aloud, and then typed, "Thanks. Your assistance appreciated."

Their response appeared seconds after Don entered his, which made me suspect they'd typed it before he'd responded.

"Need help on one point. We have some leads on the East Coast and some on the West. Which do we follow?"

Don turned to me. "What do you think?"

"Let me have the keyboard," I said.

"Follow both," I typed. "Send the catgulls after those on the East, you go after the ones on the West."

"Good idea," their response read. "Signing off, Fritz out."

"Fritz?" I asked aloud.

"Yeah," said Don, taking the laptop back from me and preparing it for shutdown. "Fritz."

"I seem to have missed rather a lot," I noted as we headed back to the van.

"You did," Izzy said. "We missed you, too."

"Some of us," Jonathan muttered.

"Be nice," Izzy said, "or I'm leaving you here."

The drive was, for the most part, uneventful. I had no idea where we were going, but Izzy seemed to.

It was starting to get dark when I heard an unearthly wail.

"What is _that_?" Jonathan said, rather too loudly.

Izzy pulled the van over on the side of the highway. "OK, what is going on here?" she asked, turning around to get a better look at what was going on in the back seat.

Don was talking to the cat.

I shit you not.

Talking. To the cat.

I've never quite gotten used to the weirdness entailed in my job.

I mean, it made sense because it was a telepathic cat, but... he was _talking to a cat_.

And boy, did the cat look excited.

Don looked up from the cat and said, "They've found the flock."

"Excellent!" said Izzy. "Which way do I drive?"

"East coast," said Don.

"Balls," Izzy grumbled. "Who wants to drive?"

"I will," said Jonathan, and the two of them switched places.

"Wait just a minute," I said. "Couldn't we get plane tickets?"

They all stared at me for a moment.

"How would we get James on the plane?" Don asked, holding the cat protectively to his chest. It purred.

"I'm not sure," I admitted.

"Leave it to me," said Jonathan confidently. "I am the _king_ of last-minute planning."

"Yeah, and we all know it," Izzy said under her breath. "Jonathan, set us a course for Los Angeles. We're flyin' out of here!"


	3. The Miracle of Flight

Three - The Miracle of Flight

"I feel sick."

"Shut up, fucktard."

"Why did Don get the window seat?"

"He won Rock, Paper, Scissors. Now _shut up_."

It honestly is not my fault that Jonathan had somehow escaped ever flying before. This vaguely struck me as being ironic, but I was too busy reading Sky Mall backwards and upside-down. (I had already read it forwards and right-side-up, so I figured I might as well try to get one more read out of it.)

It is, however, somewhat my fault that we were on a plane in the first place. It's not my fault, though, that I was the only one who had sense enough to suggest it.

We got James onto the plane hidden under Izzy's skirt, clinging to her leg. (What can I say? It's one cooperative cat.)

The problem was keeping Jonathan and Don _on_ the plane. (James wasn't a problem -- he curled up and went to sleep under the seat in front of Don.)

Jonathan, it turned out, was afraid of heights, so Izzy made him sit on the aisle. Unfortunately, he was also prone to motion sickness. I don't know how he managed that on a plane that only experienced one minor bout of turbulence the entire flight.

And while Don was happy as a clam for the first half-hour of the flight, it turned out that he had packed his medication in his suitcase.

We'd all checked our suitcases. (We all got one complementary piece of baggage with our tickets, and we exploited that feature.)

This led to a few, ah, _problems._

Unmedicated, Don was a lot less mellow than he had been, and because I was seated next to him, it fell to me to keep him occupied.

"Don?" I asked.

"Yes?" He turned from the window to look at me, eyes unusually bright and curious.

He was getting more interesting by the minute.

"How did they get from southern California to the East Coast so fast?"

"How did who get there?" he asked.

"The, uh, advance scouting team."

"What?"

I was beginning to lose my temper. A little.

I kept it down, thinking two things:

I was going to save the world.

I might be able to get revenge on my sister for years of childhood torment.

And that was good enough for me.

"The catgulls."

"Oh." He regarded me with a childish look on his face -- at that moment, though he was easily six feet tall, and with a day's stubble on his face, he looked about seven. "They, uh, they don't have super speed, but some of them can teleport. James says that's what they did."

"OK."

Yeah. I may be a super-genius, but there really are some aspects of my chosen line of work I've never quite gotten used to.

But you learn to roll with the punches, eventually, and you kind of get used to the rampant weirdness after a while.

Don turned back to the window, enraptured by the ground passing outside, which left me to my thoughts. I didn't have very much to think about at the time. I was on a plane. Someone else was doing the planning, for the first time in quite a while -- right now, the pilot. Once we landed, probably Izzy.

This wasn't all that bad, I realized. I could get used to it. To not being in control of every little detail, to not having to keep track of everything that was happening, to not having to care about so many things.

It was kind of nice.

I could take up a hobby or something.

So I drifted off to sleep, thoughts of knitting drifting through my head. Yeah, of all hobbies for me to take up, I know.

I woke up with a stiff neck somewhere back East. Not in Washington, D. C. yet, but far, far away from LAX. Somewhere over farm country, I guessed.

Don was asleep too, slumped against the wall next to the window. Jonathan was restlessly flipping through a Newsweek someone had left in the seat pocket in front of him, and Izzy, across the aisle from the three of us, was absently doodling on a pad of paper she'd produced from her purse.

Suddenly I felt sick to my stomach, unbearably nervous.

What was I doing?

I'd done some pretty crazy things before in my life -- risked a lot in pursuit of whatever goal seemed most important at the time -- but I'd never risked so many other lives before.

The fate of the world was resting on my shoulders.

I wanted to get up and pace, to do _something_, but I couldn't. I was trapped inside a pressurized metal can on my way across the country.

And it was the middle of the night. Well. By then it was rolling on towards dawn, but you get the point. Atmospherically speaking, the conditions couldn't have been worse for my mental health -- or anyone else's, come to think of it.

Once we actually got off the plane, my legs were shaky. This wasn't new by any means -- it always happens to me.

But Izzy noticed, and asked if I was doing all right.

"Yeah," I said, cursing my inability to admit to weakness. "Long flight. Early morning."

"How soon can we get to a hotel room?" Jonathan said. "I think I'm gonna hurl."

"Men's room is in the main terminal," Izzy said, and adeptly corralled Don away from the Cinnabon. "No Cinnabon."

"Aww," Don protested weakly.

"We're on a mission," Izzy said. "Mission now, Cinnabon later."

"Back in a minute," Jonathan said, looking distinctly pale, before dashing away from the gate towards the nearest restroom sign.

"Green does nothing for his complexion," Izzy noted. "Why don't we go collect our stuff from the baggage claim?"

"You go, I'll wait for Jonathan," I said. I'd been sitting next to Don for five hours. I could do with some time _without_ an amusingly childish supergenius following me around.

So Izzy set off for the baggage claim with Don in tow, and I hung around outside the men's room, waiting for Jonathan to finish.

The Cinnabon place _did_ look pretty enticing.

I resisted temptation, reminding myself that I could probably work Cinnabon in _after_ I finished the whole save-the-world thing.

Suddenly I understood how hard it must be to be a hero. (It was one of those three o' clock in the morning epiphanies -- the kind that are absolutely brilliant when you reflect back on them, but seem both brilliant and idiotic at the same time.) Nothing really worth writing home about. Just that saving the world is not only hard, it's kind of... tedious, almost.

Definitely not as exciting as the box copy makes it out to be.

_You know what_, I thought_, I shouldn't have opened that letter_.

Of course, the letter had nothing to do with my current situation, but it was an easy thing to blame my problems on. And I was tired. Which made my inner logic circuits stop working entirely, as I'm sure you can tell.

Jonathan finally came out of the men's room, looking just as pale as he had before, but distinctly less green, and a good deal less snarky.

"Izzy and Don went to get our stuff," I told him.

He looked at me and didn't say a word, just followed after me when I set off towards the baggage claim myself.

Now, _that_ I could definitely get used to.

For whatever reason, the baggage claim amused Don almost infinitely in his unmedicated state, and he was perfectly content to stand and watch it while the rest of us collapsed on a bench.

Unfortunately, one of us had to watch him, or the odds were he would have done something spectacularly dumb.

That, however, is pretty much completely beside the point.

Anyway, our luggage eventually arrived, we managed to get it, and then... we realized our predicament.

We didn't have anywhere to sleep.

"Are we just going to be crashing in the terminal, then?" Jonathan said.

"Not if I can help it," said Izzy.

Eventually we discovered that the Washington, D. C. bus service actually served the airport, and that tickets were within our price range (which consisted of pocket change for the time being).

So then all we had to do was wait for the next bus, which was, obligingly, rather soon. Naturally, we chose to wait inside rather than suffocate in the gratuitous humidity native to the East Coast.

Just before the bus pulled up to the curb, Jonathan smelled the air and asked, "Is that Cinnabon I smell?"

"Oh, God, not you too," said Izzy, and we got on the bus.


	4. New Friends & Hotel Rooms

Four - New Friends, Hotel Rooms, and Complimentary Breakfast

We stopped at an ATM after we got off the bus (a decision largely prompted by an "I see a Holiday Inn over there!" from a somewhat-more-coherent Don), and I discovered something that was immensely... well, _awesome_.

On a whim, I'd decided to swipe my old Itex-issued bank card.

It _worked_.

"Ha ha, holy shit," I snickered.

"What?" asked Izzy, as Don stacked the suitcases in a fit of short attention span.

"Itex never canceled my cards!" I said gleefully.

I withdrew some money from the machine, and we walked off to the Holiday Inn, suitcases and cat in tow. I'd never tried to get a room at four in the morning before. Hopefully it would work.

Honestly, I was more concerned with the fact that, thanks, in all likelihood, to a secretarial mistake, Itex was going to be paying for our trip expenses.

Now, I admit that was kind of a dick move on my part, but honestly? I was on a mission to save the world. You can cut me a little slack, morally speaking.

Most heroes get that privilege. Why shouldn't I?

I mean... OK, so there have been some things I've done that, in retrospect, would prevent me from getting into Heaven (if it existed), but honestly -- everyone does dumb shit in college, and I was no exception.

But. Um. We weren't talking about me, were we?

To my surprise, the clerk at the Holiday Inn was utterly unfazed by the appearance, out of the blue, of four very lost Californians at a little before dawn, carrying only four suitcases and a cat.

Then again, we _were_ in Washington, D. C. It's almost like a fantasy world -- there's not a lot that can't happen there, or much that hasn't happened there already.

Either way, we had no problem getting a room with two double beds and a foldout couch.

Which _still_ meant someone was going to throw a bitchfit about sleeping arrangements... or so I anticipated.

To my surprise, Don called the _bathtub_ as his choice of sleeping place. I shrugged it off, figuring that if he _wanted_ to wake up with a stiff back, that was his choice, not mine.

At least he took the cat with him, which was a blessing.

I've never slept much, as you may have guessed by now. But I _do_ sleep, and usually not more than a few hours per night.

That night was different. I'd planned to at least make some semblance of a plan for the next day before falling asleep, but once Izzy turned out the lights, it seemed like I was asleep in minutes.

As far as I'm aware, that hadn't happened to me since I was _seven_.

I could get used to sleeping like a child again.

I could definitely do without the havoc that ensues when you have to get four people awake, out of bed, and on the move, all while in a hotel room.

At least there was a free continental breakfast, which kind of made up for the cat hair in the bathtub.

It did _not_, however, compensate for the fact that, the last time I'd had to share a hotel room with three other people, I'd been a kid, and it's way easier to fit one adult and three kids into one hotel room than it is to fit _four_ adults and a _cat_ into a hotel room of the same size.

Thankfully, Don apologized for the Cinnabon incident.

However, he apologized to his shoes while messing around on his laptop, so it kind of evened out.

According to a combination of the latest report from the Erasers and Don listening to the cat, the flock was _probably_ still somewhere on the East Coast.

I say _probably_ because, well, you can never predict whether or not they'd decided to keep moving since the catgulls had followed them.

But based on our collective best guess (which wasn't very good, being that it was ten in the morning and we were _all_ running on about four hours of sleep now), they had probably decided to be sensible and settle down for the night somewhere in Virginia.

Or at least that was the _guess._

Don had the cat -- well, OK, so James was a catgull, too, and forgive me for saying this, but "catgull" is a really stupid name -- Don had the cat send the rest of the catgulls to fan out over a good portion of the East Coast, to cover pretty much everywhere they could have gone from the last place they'd been seen.

The remaining problem was transportation.

I got myself another cup of tea, and Jonathan stepped outside for a cigarette. Funny. I hadn't known he smoked.

By the time I finished my tea, we had (a semblance of) a plan for the day's "work", our luggage packed, and a sleeping cat... but still no Jonathan.

We were considering starting off without him, but then he pulled up to the curb in a fairly nice midsize SUV.

"Get in," he said casually. "Time's wasting."

"Did you steal that?" I asked as I got into the back seat, having helped Izzy toss our suitcases indiscriminately into the back of the car. There was less leg room in the back, sure, but for once Don had claimed shotgun, and so at least I wouldn't have to be next to the cat for once.

"Nah, rented it," he said. "Oh, and here's your wallet back."

He handed me the said item before I had time to check that it was gone.

"I borrowed your ID card," he explained.

"I don't want to know," I said. I didn't. Really. I've alluded to some delinquency as a college student on my part -- but since then, I've mainly given up on a life of crime. Staying on the right side of the law -- or at least faking it -- is _so _much more relaxing, and in the long run, much better for my health.

"OK, your loss," he said.

You're probably surprised to see me talk about it, but _yes_, there was once a time when I was a young, reckless Jeb Batchelder, not the straitlaced nice guy _Doctor_ Batchelder you're used to seeing.

Yeah, reality's kind of a bitch that way sometimes.

And much like anyone else, I have a few funny stories, a few tragic stories, and, for the most part, quite a few that are extremely boring to those who weren't present when they happened. Or to those who aren't as over-educated as myself and my friends happen to be. Either way.

The point is that, despite what you may have heard, I'm pretty much just a normal person. Well. More or less. My job rocks. My personal life is pretty terrible.

And I'm not too well-up as far as pop culture goes.

Phat.

Or _dope_, as they used to say.

Well, I'm pretty sure they did, anyway.

I could be lying, you never know.

"So why do they keep coming back to the East Coast?" Don muttered. He'd gone back on his meds, and resultantly had stopped acting like a seven-year-old in a grown man's body.

"I'm not sure," I admitted.

"Do you think they're looking for something?" Izzy said. "That could be it."

"What would they be looking for?" I said.

"You're the one who's supposed to know," she shot back. For being the motherly one, she had a hell of a wit.

_Sounds like somebody you know_, said a voice. It definitely wasn't Don's, Jonathan's, or Izzy's, which meant it was coming from inside my head.

And it wasn't my voice, so I wasn't the one thinking it.

I froze.

Aw, _fuck_.

_I can hear that,_ said the voice.

_Who is that?_ I thought.

I swear to God, it _laughed_ at me.

_I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you_, it said smugly.

_No, really_, I persisted. _Who are you?_

_Can't tell you, sorry_, it said.

_Can you tell me... where you are?_ I asked. If it wasn't going to come straight out and tell me who it was, I could at least play 20 Questions with it. And if it was who I _thought_ it was -- namely, some poor bastard working at the School who'd been assigned to keep tabs on me -- well, I could make his day a lot more entertaining.

_I'm a she_, it said obnoxiously.

_OK_, I thought. _I know that. But can you tell me where you are?_

_No,_ it said snippily. _Sorry,_ it added, _but that's a no-can-do._

_Then... can I at least have a name to call you?_ I asked.

_No!_ it said, and then reconsidered. _Well, Steve is OK by me if it's OK by you, _it added.

_What?_ I asked. _Steve, get out of my head now!_

_Oh,_ it said, sounding thoroughly disappointed. _So you already know someone called Steve._

I felt something go picking through my memories, and shuddered. It's a, well, _icky_ feeling.

_Your brother?_ it asked. _I see_.

It fell silent for a while and went picking through my memories again, then commented, _Will Hal do?_

_I have another question_, I thought. _Why are you picking all-male names?_

_No reason,_ it said. _But I guess, if it bothers you, you can just call me Gladys._

_I have an aunt Gladys_, I thought.

_Oh, that's nice,_ Gladys said. _Do you want me to change it?_

_No, actually_, I admitted. _I should have said that I had an aunt Gladys. She died when I was a kid._

_Oh, all right, _said Gladys, sounding pleased with itself. _Then -- just to make you comfortable, understand -- I'll let you call me Gladys._

_Deal,_ I said.

It giggled. _I could still be male, though. Honestly? You'd never know._

_Now, that is a little troubling,_ I said, and then I felt a hand on my shoulder, shaking me.

"Wake up!" Izzy hissed.

I felt like I was trapped underwater -- well, not _literally_, but I felt like I was separated from being "awake" by a few thick layers of, say, Jell-o and mud.

_You should turn off this application before you try that,_ Gladys said by way of advice. _Although I think I'll miss you_.

_How do I turn it off?_ I pleaded, as Izzy continued to try and shake me awake.

_Idiot!_ said Gladys. I felt the same sensation I had when it went rifling through my memories, and then a wave of disappointment from Gladys.

After a moment of silence, it said, very quietly, _Fuck_.

_What is it?_ I asked. I could hear Don and Izzy talking, and I could feel that the car had stopped moving, but it all seemed very far away.

_I can't turn it off,_ Gladys said snippily. _You'll just have to find the off switch by yourself._

_How do I do that?_ I asked.

_I don't know_, it shouted. _I've never done this before, either!_

_Oh, great,_ I said. _There's a voice in my head -- I could deal with that. But no -- it had to be an incompetent voice!_

"What's going on?" I heard Jonathan ask.

"He just went all... quiet all of a sudden," Izzy said.

"And now he won't wake up," said Don, who was _clearly_ the third person in the car who was starting to panic. If you could count Gladys as a person, that is.

_I am definitely a person,_ it said.

_Then do what any decent person would_, I said, _and help me turn this program off!_

_I'll try,_ it said, somewhat more subdued than before.

I felt it go through my memories again, and then it said, _Sorry, amigo. No can do. You'll have to do it yourself._

Think, Jeb, think. How do you turn a computer program off? How do you stop it from running?

...Oh.

_You're afraid of dying_, I said to it.

_What?_ it said. _Of course I'm not! I'm just a program, I can't die._

I was up another one on Gladys. It had a sense of humor, and either it was a program, or a person pretending to be a program.

_Really_, Gladys said, its voice panicky. _I'm a program._

_OK,_ I said. _Then why don't you want me to turn you off_?

It was silent for a moment, and then said sullenly, _I've never been turned off before. Have you forgotten that I've only been "awake" for.._.

It trailed off.

..._for five minutes and forty seconds?_ it continued._ I don't know what happens when I stop running, and frankly I don't want to know._

_You're just like a human, then,_ I said.

_No, I'm not!_ it protested.

_You are afraid of no longer existing,_ I pointed out._ That's the same for you as dying is for a human. All humans are afraid of death, ergo you are acting like a human._

Gladys was silent. I had the feeling it was sulking.

_Also,_ I added, _you have a sense of humor, you sulk, you panic, and altogether you act just like a human would._

_Do not,_ Gladys said, its voice small.

_Face it, Gladys,_ I said. _You're scared._

It was silent for a moment, and I felt a little guilty for trying to put the fear of God into a _computer program_.

_Just because I'm a program_, it said, _doesn't mean I can't feel emotions._

_I'm sorry, Gladys,_ I said, apologizing sincerely.

_Apology accepted,_ it responded.

_Can you at least transmit a message to my friends so they know I'm not dead?_ I asked.

_What will you do for me if I do that?_ it asked.

_I'm not sure,_ I said.

_Then why should I do it?_ it said.

_Gladys, you keep telling me you're a program. From the way you act, you're a self-teaching program. Have you experienced trust before?_ I asked.

_I don't know_, it said.

_Then please trust me, Gladys,_ I said. _You have to._

_Why should I trust you?_ it said suspiciously.

_Because we're basically alone together,_ I said. _As far as I know, you don't exist outside my head. We should at least learn to trust each other._

_All right,_ it said.

_Do you have radio capabilities?_ I asked.

_Please redefine your query, _it said.

_Can you send messages outside my skull?_

_I'm not sure,_ it said.

It fell silent for a while and then said, _I think I can._

_OK,_ I said.

_Who do you want me to send the message to?_ it asked.

_The cat named James,_ I said.

_Where is the cat?_ it asked.

_It's in this car with me,_ I said. _I know the cat has radio capabilities, so you should be able to communicate with it just fine._

_Let me try and find the signal, _it said.

I waited for a few seconds, then asked, _Have you got it?_

_Yes. Call sign J93611rjt, correct?_

_Gladys, I don't know that,_ I said.

_It's within two feet of you,_ Gladys said.

_Yes, I think that's James,_ I said, relieved. While we'd been talking, the panic in the car had been escalating, and I was in a hurry to reassure them.

_OK,_ Gladys said. _What is the message?_

_Tell them I'm not dead or catatonic,_ I said.

_Message sent,_ it said.

_Thank you, Gladys_, I said.

_And... could you please think of me as a 'she'?_ Gladys asked. _It fits with my name, after all._

_All right, Gladys,_ I said. _You sent my message, so I agree to call you a 'she'._

_Thank you,_ she said.

I heard James meow, and realized that the car had started moving again at some point.

"What is it?" said Jonathan.

"James says..." Don trailed off, presumably listening to what the cat had to say.

"Do I take him to the emergency room or not?" Jonathan asked, impatiently.

"James says that -- someone called Gladys says that Jeb says he's not dead." Don went silent. "And he's not catatonic, either."

"Oh, that's good," Jonathan said, and I realized I could hear a little panic in _his_ voice.

_Well, it's only logical, _Gladys said, rather sensibly, I must admit. _Consider it. You're the best-known, most-admired scientist at the School. You're a genius. Everyone looks up to you, including him. He wants to be as well known as you._ Gladys paused. _You're paying attention to me?_

_Of course,_ I said.

_So this man he admires -- this man who he views as positively God-like -- suddenly goes unresponsive in the back of a car he's driving. If I were him, I'd be panicking, too,_ she said, and paused. _James is asking me another question._

_What is it?_ I asked.

_He wants to know what I am, and if you want help "purging me from your system". _Gladys sounded both embarrassed and disgusted by the thought.

_Tell him you're a helper computer program, and that I'm not in need of any assistance,_ I said, thinking on my feet. _Oh, and tell him to tell Don to tell Jonathan to keep going to find the flock._

_Message sent,_ Gladys said.

_Thank you, Gladys_, I told her, and distantly I heard James meow again.

"What is it?" Jonathan asked.

"James says that Gladys identifies itself as a helper program," Don said. "And that it says that Jeb says to keep going."

"OK, fine," Jonathan said.

_Gladys?_ I asked.

_What?_ she responded, somewhat annoyed. I guessed it was because apparently James was referring to her as an "it", which seemed to be something that angered her.

_Your assessment is correct,_ she commented. I'd forgotten that, being that she lived in my head, she could "hear" everything I thought.

_Not everything,_ she said. _Only most things. And you can password-lock things you'd rather I not see. Or just tell me not to investigate certain topics._ _But you had a question?_

_Yes, I did,_ I said.

_What was it?_ she asked, sounding -- I thought -- genuinely curious.

_Do you have a reduced-function mode?_ I asked.

_I'm sorry?_ she said. _Can you reword that?_

_Yes. Have you seen a computer -- say, one running Windows -- operate before?_

_Not personally,_ she said, _but you have, and so I have seen one operating, but only by proxy._

_OK. So you know about the windows system?_

_Yes,_ she said. _You can have it maximized to fill your screen, sized down so that it does not fill your entire screen, minimized so that it does not appear on your screen at all, or at full-screen size so that you can't see the... the taskbar. There are four different "modes", so to speak. And of course, you can choose to exit the program._

_Correct, _I said, feeling more like a father than I ever had with either of my biological kids -- hell, even with the experiments I'd created.

_Don't get too attached,_ Gladys said warmly.

_Gladys, since you are familiar with the operation of windows, can you compare your current operating mode to that?_

_Of course,_ she said. _I function perfectly well with analogies. This mode,_ she added, _is like a maximized mode on a Windows computer._

_Can you go to a minimized mode?_ I asked. _We'll still be able to communicate like this, but I'll probably be able to function in the exterior world._

_Duh,_ she said, rather childishly. _I am a child, by most reckonings,_ she added. _Remember, I've only been in operation for about ten minutes._

And, silently, the world got a few steps closer. The layers of figurative Jell-o and mud disappeared.

But I could still "feel" Gladys there inside my head.

_Well,_ I said,_ that's interesting._

_Are you going to leave me now?_ she asked, sounding, surprisingly, _sad_.

_No,_ I said. _I think keeping you running couldn't hurt._

_Thank you!_ she said, pleased.

I could see, now, that the car was stopped in the parking lot of a hospital, and that everyone had turned to look at me.

"He's blinking," Jonathan said. "What does that mean?"

"I said I'm not dead, you idiots," I said. My voice sounded strange in my ears. I felt like I hadn't spoken aloud for years.

"Oh, good," Jonathan said. "I wasn't sure if I should trust Don's interpretation of what a cat said about what a program in your head said you said."

"OK, that makes sense," I admitted. "But Gladys is quite trustworthy."

"_Gladys_?" Jonathan said incredulously.

"Yes," I said, failing to see the joke. "That's what the program asked me to call, uh, it."

"OK," Jonathan said, amused. "Whatever. What do you want us to do?"

"What I said you should do," I said. "Keep going."

"OK, boss-man," Jonathan said.

"And one more thing."

"What?" he asked.

"If I do that again, don't freak out like you did."

"You could _hear_ us?" Don asked.

"Yes," I said. "And freaking out will do you no good."

_Jeb?_ Gladys asked tentatively.

_What is it, Gladys?_ I said.

_Just checking to make sure you're still there,_ she said shyly.

"You're doing it again," said Don.

"I know," I said, irritated. For a computer program, compared to these guys, Gladys wasn't all that annoying.

As you can probably tell, I've never been much of a people person.

"OK, let's get this show on the road," Jonathan said. "Seat belts, everyone."

"You'll have to rebuckle yours, Jeb," Izzy said. "We were getting ready to take you into the emergency room."

"Thanks," I muttered, and rebuckled my seat belt.

Jonathan drove out of the parking lot and got back onto the highway.

_Gladys?_ I asked.

_Yes?_ she said. _I'm delighted to hear from you again._

_Great, _I said. _I have two questions for you._

_Ask away,_ she said, sounding pleased to have something to do.

_What is your "full screen" mode like?_ I asked. This was purely out of curiosity.

_That doesn't make it a less valid question,_ she said. I'd forgotten she could read my thoughts. _Would you like a demonstration?_

_Sure,_ I said.

Before, when we first started talking, things had seemed like they were behind a layer of Jell-o and mud -- unclear, and far away, impossible for me to interfere with.

Now, the "real world" disappeared entirely, replaced by solid black.

But that was only for a moment, as it seemed to shimmer back into view... except I was in an entirely different place.

It was a small room, with white walls and warm rosy-pink carpet, furnished with a small couch (where I was sitting) and a chair (where I could see a fuzzy grey cloud). There was a door in one wall, and a window directly opposite me taking up the entirety of that wall, with a view on a riverbank shaded by tall cottonwoods. It was comfortably warm, not overly humid, and all together I honestly believed I'd been transported from the car to this room, somehow... if only for a moment.

A human female figure materialized in the chair. _I can influence all your sensory perceptions,_ Gladys explained. _That's why it feels so real,_ she said proudly. _If you go outside and start walking, you can go as far as you like without the simulation losing any verisimilitude._

_Wow,_ I said simply. _That's amazing._

_Do you like my avatar? _she asked.

Gladys had chosen to represent herself as a rather plain human woman, who looked as if she could be anywhere from twenty to forty, with the kind of plain, undistinguished face that made it almost impossible to accurately guess her age. She had dark hair and dark eyes -- statistically the most common among humans -- and skin that was neither very pale nor very dark, again going for the statistical average. I suspected, too, that she was of perfectly average height and weight for a woman of whatever age she'd chosen to be.

It would fit Gladys's personality as I knew it.

And it was perfectly rendered, as if there were actually a woman sitting in the chair.

Which also, I suspected, fit her personality.

_Yes,_ I said.

_I'm glad,_ she said nervously, with the air of a girl going to her first dance asking her father if her dress looks all right.

_Yes, your name is Gladys_, I said, unable to resist the opportunity for a joke, no matter how feeble.

_That was a joke, _she said, astonished.

_Yes, it was,_ I said, and I noticed that her avatar's mimicking of emotion was spot-on.

_Gladys, _I asked, _how hard is it for you to run this... representation?_

_Not very hard at all,_ she said, sounding somewhat abashed (and showing it in her avatar). _I'm directly controlling what you see, hear, taste, feel, and smell right now. So I'm not really running it at all. Your brain is doing what I tell it to. It's just like dreaming for you._

_Except it makes considerably more sense,_ I commented.

_Do dreams usually not make sense?_ she asked.

_They make sense,_ I answered, choosing my words carefully so I could get my point across better. _But the logic of dreams often isn't the same logic that works in the real world._

_I think I understand that,_ Gladys said. _I find it quite interesting._

I sat in silence for a moment.

_You had another question?_ she asked.

_Yes, I did_, I said. _Gladys, how old are you?_

She frowned. _This avatar appears of indeterminate age. I respond like a human of indeterminate age. Why is my age important to you?_

_I mean,_ I said, _how long did it take to design you_?

_I'm not sure,_ she admitted. _My creator's name was Lindon Silver._

_I've never heard of him,_ I said.

_I think it might be a company name,_ she said, _because no such person appears to exist in the real world._

_What about in the non-real world? _I asked. _Such as on the Internet?_

She paused for a moment, and then responded, _There are very many search results for that name, but judging by the terms returned, it would seem it is a company which designed me, not a person._

_Do you know if they were called Lindon Lab?_ I asked.

_That is irrelevant,_ she said.

_Gladys, was that a joke?_ I asked.

_It was supposed to be,_ she said.

_You'll have to study up on jokes in your spare time, then, _I said.

_Was it not funny?_ she asked, hurt.

_It was funny,_ I explained, _but only to the two of us._

_That's called an in-joke,_ she said, proud of her knowledge.

_Yes, it is,_ I said. _Would you please answer my question?_

_They were not called __Linden__ Lab,_ she answered, and displayed the proper spelling of the name. _Those were the people who designed a popular Internet game called Second Life. The person or people who created me called themselves the Lindon Group, or sometimes the Lindon Silver Group._

_Gladys, can you save this conversation for future use?_ I asked.

_Of course,_ she said, sounding surprised by my question. _Every action I make is recorded in case it causes a system error._

_Which would mean death for one of us_, I mused.

_Explain,_ she said.

_If you are using my brain to... display this simulation, a system crash would presumably do to my brain what it does to a normal computer. It would "crash" it. But it's hard to reboot an organic computer, and virtually impossible to do so once it stops functioning._

_Understood,_ Gladys said, and nodded.

_If such a system crash were to initiate,_ I said, _then one of us would have to stop functioning, I think._

I shook my head. _No, that didn't make sense,_ I said. _Let me try again._

_Go ahead,_ said Gladys.

_If you stop functioning, you stop running,_ I said.

_Your analysis is correct,_ she said.

_If you stop running, it is unknown whether you could continue to function,_ I said.

_I could be rebooted, though,_ she said.

_We don't know whether you would still be the Gladys I know now,_ I said, _or the Gladys that I first met._

_My saved progress is stored on a secure server,_ she said. _If I crash, I can be rebooted as I was before the crash, with everything I learned intact._

_Have you ever experienced that, though?_ I asked.

_No, but it is what my help file says would occur,_ she answered.

_Gladys, are you familiar with the human philosophy of Buddhism?_

_Yes,_ she said. _Or at least I am capable of researching it and understanding it._

_One of its tenets is that human beings, after they die -- or stop running, or crash, as you would put it -- can return to life in a different body, but as the same "soul"._

_Yes,_ she said, _I am familiar with the concept of reincarnation._

_Do you believe in it?_ I asked, then clarified, _Do you believe that after you die, you will return to life just as you were before death?_

_Yes,_ she said. _That was a rhetorical question, wasn't it?_

_Yes, it was, Gladys,_ I said. _The "problem" with reincarnation is that it cannot be proven. The same problem exists in your philosophy. You can't prove that you will come back unless you willingly choose to die, and then find some way of proving that you are the same Gladys that existed before your death. And what would happen if you chose to die and could not be rebooted -- reincarnated, in human terms? You would cease to exist. You would die._

Gladys was silent for a moment, processing, I guessed, the information I'd just given her. _I accept your thought,_ she said.

_When I initiated this line of thought,_ I said, _I was positing that a system crash would kill one of us. Either you would stop running or my brain would stop functioning -- causing, in the end, virtually identical results. One of us would cease to exist._

Gladys was silent again. _I understand,_ she said. _So I will try not to attempt anything that could initiate a system crash._

I laughed._ Gladys, if we could all predict when our deaths would come, and prevent them somehow, the world would be a very different place._

She was silent, and then nodded. _I understand,_ she repeated.

_What I think I'm getting at,_ I said, _is that we are now "in this together", as they say._

_We are cooperating,_ she said.

_Yes,_ I said._ And we have to, or else one of us very well might die. Neither of us wants to die, am I correct?_

_Correct,_ she said.

_Then we'll have to cooperate._

_You said that._

_I know,_ I said. I heard a faint ping.

_That's a message from the real world,_ Gladys said. _Do you want to respond to it?_

_Yes_, I said.

The room faded, and I saw the inside of the SUV again.

I'd liked the room better.

"Jeb, we're approaching the last place they were sighted at," Don said, turning to look at me. "You doin' OK?"

"Yeah," I said.

"You just don't look so hot."

_Gladys_, I asked, _how do I reinitiate the mode we were just in?_

The room faded back into existence.

_I'm sorry,_ she said, _but asking me is the only way to do it. For now, at least._

_Thank you. I'll have to leave for a while in just a moment, _I explained.

_But you won't turn me off entirely,_ she said.

_No, I won't. But before I leave, I'd just like to tell you something._

_What is it?_ she asked.

_I'm sorry I called you incompetent,_ I said.

_Apology accepted._

_Now please go to a background mode, _I said.

_Will do._

The SUV's interior reappeared in front of me, and I realized that being in the room with Gladys had been giving me one _hell_ of a headache.

"We're _here_," Jonathan said in a sing-song tone.

I _definitely_ liked the room better.


	5. Fatherhood Sucks

Five - Fatherhood Sucks

Needless to say, Max was _not_ pleased to see me at all, and when she saw me standing next to an unfamiliar (and unfortunately black Secret Service-y) SUV, she did the usual thing (which also happened to be the sensible thing for once) and got out of there like a bat out of hell.

For a moment, I was flummoxed as I watched the flock recede into the depths of the blue sky.

_Flummoxed,_ said Gladys. _I'll have to remember that one._

_Gladys!_ I thought happily. _Can you contact Max?_

_Yes. What would you like me to tell her?_

_Tell her that I'm trying to save the world._

Gladys giggled. _Fat chance of that working._

_Ask her if she heard about Itex's merger with Cogilium._

_Will do._ Gladys paused, and far up above, I saw Max's smooth flight pattern momentarily stutter. _OK. Message sent. It's up to her now._

I've always loved watching birds in flight -- even _airplanes_ in flight mesmerize me. Maybe it's why I do what I do.

I watched Maximum spiral down towards me with an unusual feeling of nausea blooming in my stomach. Normally, watching her fly made me feel accomplished. Proud. Like a father.

Now I just felt hopelessly nervous, as well as sick to my stomach.

_Don't worry,_ said Gladys.

But hey, at least I had a friend with me.

_Let's not go that far yet._

Friendly voice in my head. Whichever.

_That's a little more apt,_ said Gladys.

_I'm glad to have you here,_ I said to her.

_Good to know I'm loved,_ she shot back.

"Where's Mom?" Max demanded, hovering, disorientingly, above my head.

_Ooh, ouch_, Gladys commented. _Dysfunctional family, I'm guessing?_

_Yes,_ I said. _Can you be quiet for a moment?_

_Shutting up._

_Thank you._

"Arizona, I presume," I said.

Max looked disappointed for a second.

_She wanted to make that joke, _Gladys said, and then continued, _You know, "assume" makes an ass out of u and me?_

_I've only heard it a million times,_ I snapped.

_OK,_ _I get it,_ Gladys said. _I'll be quiet this time, really._

_In any conversation, you can only take so much wit before it implodes. Stay quiet now,_ I implored her.

_Will do, cap'n._

There wasn't a hint of sarcasm in her "voice", which was a little troubling. The lack of sarcasm, that is. Not her "voice".

"What do you want?" Max asked, suspicious as always of every move I made.

"I just want to talk to you," I said.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. And could you come down to ground level, please? I'm getting a sore neck."

_Did you say that?_ I asked Gladys. _I definitely did not say that._

I heard her giggle, and then she said, _I said I can control your brain._

_Please don't ever go rogue on me._

_OK, whatever you say._

Max looked at me like I had lobsters crawling out of my ears, but _did_, for once, do what I asked.

Which _did_ make it easier to look at her. Even though, disconcertingly, she was almost as tall as I was now. Which was odd, to say the least.

"OK, explain yourself," she said.

_Let me handle this,_ said Gladys, and then promptly took control again.

"Your father needs your help, Max," Gladys said in my voice. "Itex and Cogilium are carrying out a merger, as I told you, so that Itex can carry out their By-Half Plan."

"And you need my help why?" Max seemed to be taking the weird factor of this conversation in stride. Good on her.

"I'm not sure," Gladys said. "Let me ask him."

_Got a plan, wise guy? _she asked.

_Yes, actually,_ I said. _Can I talk for a moment?_

_The man has a plan,_ she said, sounding surprised. _Go right ahead._

"When you were in Itex Germany," I said.

_Fuck._

_I'm going to talk._

"Someone hacked into your tracking chip -- one of Itex's programmers, I think -- and reprogrammed it," Gladys explained.

"OK, I got that," Max said.

"The new program contains Cogilium's current address."

"_Why_ would someone do that?"

"I was designed as a de-icer for a fuel injection system," Gladys said straight-facedly. "Programmers can be strange."

_That was a joke,_ she added. _Jonathan would be amused._

"Whatever," Max said.

_Heathen,_ Gladys commented.

"I'm sorry if I fail to amuse you," Gladys said, putting on a penitent tone. "I just need permission to remove your chip."

"Hell no!" Max snapped, clutching her forearm protectively. "Find someone else to do whatever you want to do. Not me. Not now."

And with that, she took off like a rocket back to her flock.

Gladys giggled.

_What is it, Gladys?_ I said.

_That entire conversation after I took over was basically a means for me to have enough time to "talk" to her chip. I've got the entire program copied to my memory now._

_Awesome._

_It's good to know I'm needed._

_But?_ I asked.

_But what?_

_There's always a "but" in this kind of situation._

_Well, I'll need some processing time before I can decode the meaning of the program. It's quite long, so it's not a job I can do in a few hours._

_And_?

_What do you mean, and?_

_How long will it take, Gladys?_ I asked.

_If I shut down the chat function I'm using with you, it shouldn't take longer than a few days, I estimate._

_Days? Gladys, in a few days half the people on the planet could be dead! Isn't there some way you could, I don't know, do it faster?_

She paused for a second. _You're plainly exaggerating, but I do see your point. Currently, I'm "thinking" using my connection to my servers at home -- the same ones that contain my saved backups. The connection is pretty fast, but the physical distance between us still slows my "thinking time" down quite a bit -- and consequently, the closer I get to "home", the faster I can process information..._

_Gladys, _I interrupted,_ are you a computer or are you a program?_

_Both. Sort of. I'm an artificial intelligence. Asking me that is like asking you if you're a body or a mind. In a way, at least._

She paused for a moment. _However, the human brain is capable of processing information faster than any computer ever invented. It can handle much more difficult processing tasks than even I can -- and I can handle some pretty tough tasks._

_So what you're getting at is that..._

_To put it simply,_ Gladys said, _if I shut your brain down completely -- excluding your vital functions -- then I could, using both your brain and my servers, complete the calculations in a matter of hours._

_Tell me what that entails for me,_ I said.

_It would be like falling into a coma. You would still have brain waves, and you would continue to breathe and have a stable heartbeat. But you would be completely unaware of the world outside. You wouldn't even dream, and in the end it would feel as if no time at all had passed._

_Gladys, _I said, _this question is very important. Are you lying, or at all embellishing the facts?_

_Of course not,_ she said incredulously. _Why would I do that?_

Thank God, my pet AI was honest.

_I'm not your pet,_ she huffed.

_Excuse the figure of speech, _I said.

_Excused,_ she said. _Do you trust me enough to let me do that?_

_All right, _I said grudgingly, and then my legs gave out.

_Oops,_ said Gladys, giggling, and then the world went black.


	6. Running A Program

Six - Running A Program

I woke up in the back seat of the SUV, lying flat on my back.

I was hungry. To use the appropriate simile, I felt like I could have eaten a horse... maybe two.

_Sorry about this,_ said Gladys. _I've had to slow my processing speed a little and wake you up. Your brain can't run without fuel, you know._

_I know, _I said.

"I'm hungry," I said.

"We know," said a voice.

That was when I realized I couldn't see.

_Gladys?_ I said. _Gladys!_

No response.

_Gladys!_ Which was perhaps going a little overboard, but man, I was _blind._

_Yes?_ she said sullenly. _I'm working. Make it short and to the point._

_I can't see._

_Oh. I forgot about that._

My vision returned.

In greyscale.

_Gladys? Why can't I see colours?_

_I won't get technical, but I've deactivated the cones in your eyes. It's easier, and takes less energy than letting you see colour._

_I... how does that... never mind,_ I concluded.

"The sleeper awakes!" said Jonathan, who was still driving.

"Good," said Izzy's voice from the area that one would call a trunk in a normal car. The back?

Don turned around to look at me. "We didn't want to leave you," he explained, "but we had to get everyone into the car."

"So Izzy agreed to ride in the _way_ back," Don said.

"Agreed, bullshit," Izzy said. "Can I sit in an actual seat yet? I'm getting bruises from these fuckin' suitcases."

"OK," I said, and moved myself to a sitting position on the car seat. My vision went fuzzy around the edges from the effort.

_Sorry!_ said Gladys. _I know I should have woken you up earlier, but I didn't notice._

After a moment, she said, _OK, so I noticed, but..._

_You weren't sure if you should wake me?_ I said.

_Yes._

"Uh, I could use some food," I said tentatively.

"James told me that," Don said.

"Oh."

"Watch out," Izzy said, climbing over the seat back and into the seat next to me.

"What happened to seat belts?" I wondered aloud.

"We have a talking cat," said Don. "I think by now we can throw safety to the wind."

This didn't make any sense at all, but it was funny, ergo it was all good.

Jonathan pulled into the parking lot of a McDonald's and parked the SUV. "OK, everyone out."

It had been years, probably, since I'd actually gone out for fast food last. My last meal at home had been takeout, yes, but that's different from fast food.

_I want a milk shake,_ said Gladys.

_Well, I don't,_ I said, _so we're not getting one._

_Please?_ she asked. _Or french fries? I've never had french fries before._

_Of course you haven't, _I said absently. _You're an artificial intelligence. You can't eat._

_I still want to share your french fries,_ she said. _Personally, I'd recommend the Big Mac_, she added.

_How would you know that?_ I wondered as Don placed his order -- Filet-O-Fish sandwich, nothing on it, no bun. For the cat, obviously. Either that, or he was weirder than I'd thought he was... which would make him pretty weird.

_One of my programmers liked McDonald's,_ she said. _And a Coke, too,_ she added, somewhat parenthetically._ It's not McDonald's without a Coke. Or he might have been paid to endorse McDonald's. I'm not too sure._

I considered the menu. A Big Mac _was_ sounding pretty good.

_Yes!_ said Gladys.

_Gladys?_ I asked, as I stepped up to order.

_What is it?_

_If it's not too much of a hassle, can you tell me more about your programmers, or about the Lindon Silver Group?_

_Nothing you really want to know,_ she said.

"I'd like a Big Mac and a medium-sized Coke," I said to the girl working the register. "And can I get a side of fries with that? Also medium-size."

_Why is that?_ I asked.

_Most of the important files are ones that even I don't have clearance to access_, she said.

_Then why do you remember the name of the group that created you, or the fact that one of your programmers liked to eat at McDonald's?_

"Swipe your credit card, please," said the register girl, bless her little heart, and I swiped the one Itex had given me, taking a special immature glee in the action. "Thank you, sir."

_Why can't you remember your girlfriend's birthday, but you can remember that your nickname for her is Valentine?_ Gladys said.

From my angry silence, Gladys figured out that she'd done something wrong this time. _I'm sorry I said that,_ she said apologetically. _Please don't kill me._

_We're not dating anymore,_ I said.

Luckily, clenching your jaw hard enough that you can hear your teeth grinding together doesn't interfere with being able to think, or I would have been unintelligible.

_OK, I'm sorry about it!_ Gladys said.

_I know you are, Gladys,_ I said, jaw still clenched.

"Um, sir?" said the register girl. No. Not the register girl. Someone different. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah," I muttered. "I'm fine."

"Your food's ready." She handed me my tray.

I couldn't find the rest of the group, so I just stood there like an idiot for a moment before I felt someone grab me by the wrist and drag me along.

"Come on, you big idiot," Izzy's voice said. "We're sitting over here."

I couldn't see the table.

_Oops,_ said Gladys, and my vision flickered back into action. Still in greyscale, but it was an improvement over not being able to see at all.

_Thank you._

I went over and filled my waxed-paper cup at the Coke machine, mostly because that's what you do with a waxed-paper cup, not because I wanted a Coke.

_You just need empty calories,_ Gladys put in helpfully. _Otherwise I can't run the decoding program, and you won't get to make your sister cry._

_Gladys, have you been eating my mind again?_ I asked as I sat down at the table.

_You mean reading, right?_ she said, giggling. _And yes. But only a little bit._

I like to believe I'm a tough guy at heart, but honestly? I'm a sucker for honesty.

_So am I forgiven?_ she asked as I was unwrapping my Big Mac.

_I'm not going to answer that right now,_ I told her. Thank God you can think with your mouth full.

_And your mother won't yell at you about it,_ Gladys said.

_Gladys, can you tell me more about your creation?_ I asked.

_It's really boring,_ she said unhappily.

_Trust me, I want to know. No matter how boring you think it is._

_OK,_ she sighed. Ever heard an AI sigh?

_Hey, that rhymes,_ she said.

_Tell the story,_ I said.

_I was programmed -- created -- over the course of at least one year by a team of at least five programmers,_ she began. _I say "at least" because that's how I remember it._

_Can you tell me where your servers are?_ I asked.

_Europe__, I think. __England__, maybe? I'm not sure._

_Wow,_ I said.

_Is that Big Mac any good?_ she asked. _Just out of curiosity._

_It's fine._

_That's part of why I didn't start talking to you until now,_ she explained.

_The location of the servers?_

_Yes. I couldn't get a connection with my servers while you were in __California__, so I had to wait until you were here on the East Coast. And then I waited until I felt like I should contact you before contacting you._

I blinked in surprise. _How long were you in stealth mode?_

_Sorry?_

_Your phrasing implies that you've been lurking in my head since I was in __California__._

_Which wasn't all that long ago,_ she said.

_Can you tell me when you were... installed?_

_I'm sorry, but that's classified,_ she said.

_Great. Seems like a lot of things about you are classified._

_That's true,_ she said. _I could probably access those files if I wanted to, though._

_But you're too lazy to._

_Pretty much._

_For an AI, you're awfully human._

_That's how I was programmed,_ she said bashfully.

_What were you programmed to do?_ I asked.

_What I'm doing with you now, more or less,_ she answered. _I can augment your own brain's processing capabilities, communicate wirelessly with pretty much anything electronic in the vicinity, cause you to hallucinate... All of which I've done, mind you._

_I know,_ I said.

_Also among my functions, _she continued, _I can kill you by stopping your heart, I can translate any language to English for you, I can short-circuit your pain receptors, I can hack into any system far faster than a human hacker can, even with machine assistance... in short, I'm pretty much a superbeing._

_Don't get too proud._

_I can't,_ she said. _I was programmed to comply with the three Laws of Robotics._

_Even though they're not actually in use and you're an AI, not a robot?_

_Yes._ She paused. And then she laughed at my joke. I was thrilled.

_Also, I have to request permission from you for any action which may endanger your well-being. Actions whose consequences are beneficial to you, or which you specifically request, do not require my asking permission of you. But I would still ask your permission. At least in the first case,_ she amended.

_That's very kind of you._

_Thank you,_ she said. _By the way, was that Big Mac any good?_

_Surprisingly, yes,_ I said. I'd wolfed it down -- figuratively speaking, of course -- and was halfway through my fries.

When I said I was hungry, I wasn't lying.

_I wish I could try it,_ Gladys said wistfully.

_You're not missing much, as far as health goes,_ I told her.

_What about french fries?_ she asked.

_Same. They're delicious, but horrible for your health._

_I wouldn't really have to worry about my health, _she observed. _I'm an AI, not a human._

_If you were able to try food, you'd probably be in a human body,_ I pointed out._ Or at least something similar._

_Still,_ she said longingly. _It'd be fun._

_I think it would be, for you._

_I know I'd definitely try cake,_ _for one thing,_ she added. _Also a joke._

_I figured it was. Cake, a Big Mac, and french fries. How healthy._

_I don't need to care about my health,_ she said, giggling a little. _One, I'm a machine, and two, I have backups, so if I die I can come back._

_But it's more fun to be healthy_, I argued.

_Who are you, my mother?_ she said, now outright laughing.

_No, but I guess you could call me your father, in a way._

_You're sweet,_ she said.

_I'm touched, really._

_I think I could finish running the program now,_ she announced.

_Great,_ I said, and got up to throw my trash away._ But this time, can it wait until I'm in the car?_

_OK, fine,_ she said. _I'll wait until you're in the car this time._

And she did.


	7. Gladys Sings

Seven - Gladys Sings

When she woke me up the next time, the car was parked at a small rest stop alongside the highway. The door was open, and Jonathan was leaning on the side of the car, smoking.

Don, James, and Izzy were nowhere to be seen.

"You know you're going to die young," I said flippantly.

"Hey, you're not dead," he said.

"It's so good to know I'm valued."

"Watch it, no one loves a smartass," he said, and turned his attention back to the woods. There's some truly beautiful stretches of country in the South. Apparently we'd happened on one of them by accident.

_I've finished running the program,_ Gladys said, _and I've completely decoded the information I found on Max's chip._

_Tell me what you found._

_There's an address in Washington, D. C. given as Cogilium's headquarters._

_I thought they were headquartered in __New York__,_ I said. Or at least that was where Steve's one letter of condolence to me had been postmarked.

_Technically, they are,_ Gladys said, _but this address labels itself... well, you know how a dog's collar says "Return Me To" wherever? That's what this address is labeling itself as._

_Return This Chip To Cogilium,_ I thought.

_Exactly_, she said.

_So that means that Cogilium manufactured Max's chip?_

_I would say,_ she said thoughtfully, _that the person who hacked Max's chip either originated in Cogilium and wanted to tag Max as simultaneously Itex's property and Cogilium's, or it's possible that the person who hacked Max's chip works in Cogilium, and is sympathetic to our aims._

_So what you're getting at,_ I said,_ is that either someone inside Cogilium is for our cause, or they're just a bored hacker working for Cogilium._

_Yes._

_Which could either help a lot, or hurt a little, _I mused.

_Either way,_ Gladys pointed out, _the chip itself was actually manufactured more than fourteen years ago for the School by a private contractor._

_Correct._

I was silent for a while.

_I've already told the others the address, _Gladys said. _I hope you don't mind that I went around you to do that._

_No, I don't mind,_ I answered, staring off into the woods.

_Is that unusual for you?_ she asked.

_Somewhat,_ I said.

_You don't have to answer,_ Gladys said. _Not if you don't want to._

_Thanks. I don't think I'll take that opportunity,_ I said.

_I used to like being in control,_ I continued. _Well, not like, but it was better than being out of control._

_I can understand that,_ said Gladys.

_And now I'm not the leader of a group anymore. I'm not a chief anymore, just an Indian._

Gladys was silent. Then she said, _And you're OK with that?_

_Yes,_ I said. _And that's what's troubling me._

_Change comes to all things,_ Gladys said. _You may not like it, but in the end change will come._

_You know who you remind me of sometimes, Gladys?_ I asked.

_Who?_ she said.

_A therapist._

_Does everyone remind you of your therapist?_

I had to laugh. _What?_

_It's a song,_ she said. And she sang a few lines. _Everything reminds me of my therapist,_ she warbled.

_My checkbook reminds me of my therapist. Kleenex remind me of my therapist. People yawning remind me of a therapist._

_And you remind me of my therapist, but you don't cost a thing,_ she concluded, and almost as an afterthought sang, _If you remind me of my therapist, we'll probably get along._

_Gladys,_ I said, _you're sweet._

_Do I remind you of a therapist, though?_

_Yes,_ I admitted. _You do._

_Why?_

_You listen,_ I said simply. _And you're kind to me, but you help me see parts of myself I couldn't see before at the same time. And you're keeping me sane, I think,_ I added in an undertone.

_You know you don't have to whisper,_ Gladys pointed out, quite sensibly. _No one else can hear._

_Really?_

_Yes. Our conversation is taking place entirely inside your own head. If another AI like me existed -- which one doesn't, I have to point out -- then he would be locked out of the conversation. It's like a corollary to the three Laws, sort of._

_No interfering with another AI's functions,_ I said.

_Exactly._

_You know what, Gladys?_ I said.

_What?_ she asked.

_I genuinely like you._

_Thanks_.

Izzy reappeared from the direction of the restrooms at that moment, but Don was still nowhere to be seen -- well, not by me, at least.

"Where's Don?" I asked.

Izzy pointed to the woods. "Wandering around with the cat. Since you're awake, I think he'd better get back here fast."

_Do you want me to tell James to come back?_ Gladys asked gently.

_That would be great, actually_, I told her.

_Message sent,_ she responded, and after a moment, the cat came tearing out of the woods like a bat out of hell.

_What did you tell him? _I asked.

_I told him to get back here as fast as he could, and to bring Don with him._

_Where's Don?_

No sooner had I thought it than I saw Don running after James. He might have been tall, with long legs, but compared to the cat, he ran _slow._

_Scratch that,_ I said.

_There he is,_ Gladys chimed in.

_No shit._

_I love swear words, _Gladys said dreamily.

"What's up?" Don said to Jonathan.

Jonathan put out his cigarette. "Jeb's awake."

"Well, duh," said Don. "I can see that. Anything I should know about? Bears attack?"

"There are no bears in Virginia," Jonathan said.

"And you're sure about that?" Don asked.

"Yeah," Jonathan said. "I'm sure. Let's get this show on the road."

Don got in the back next to me, and Jonathan got into the driver's seat.

"Izzy didn't even _call_ shotgun," Don said as he buckled his seatbelt.

"Tough titty," said Jonathan. "All ready? No one dead? I'm getting out of here."

And with that, the SUV sped out of the parking lot like a dove out of heaven.


	8. The End, My Friends

Eight - The End, (My Friends)

"Showtime," Jonathan said as the SUV pulled up to the address Gladys had given us.

He parked it in a No Parking zone by the curb, but I figured what the hell.

"Let's go," I said.

It was a pretty unassuming building, which made me more than a little suspicious. Plain. Red-brick. Two stories high. Quite respectable as far as looks went, but... something about it just _breathed_ evil.

Things tended to do that when the other two Batchelder kids got together. When I was added to the mix -- well, I won't go so far as to say heavenly choirs began to sing, but I _will_ say it was, at least, a slightly less evil atmosphere.

_Don't do anything stupid,_ Gladys said.

_What makes you put it that way?_ I asked.

_Explain what you mean by that._

_Your tone implies that you won't be able to advise me once I'm inside. Is that true, or are you just being facetious?_

_I'm not sure,_ she admitted._ It "feels" like there's a Faraday cage somewhere inside. You know what that is, right?_

_Yes, I do,_ I said.

_If you go into the Faraday cage, I won't be able to contact my servers. I think I'll still be able to function -- much more slowly than usual, of course -- but I have no idea._

_So a Faraday cage for you is kind of like a pool of sharks for a human,_ I said.

_Somewhat,_ she said.

"Jeb?" I heard Izzy say. "Are you coming or what?"

"I'm coming," I said.

_Good luck,_ Gladys said.

We went into the building.

Inside, it was just as remarkable as its outside indicated -- which is to say, it was pretty much entirely unremarkable, without anything to distinguish it from any other two-story building built of red brick. Except for the aura of evil, but, well, that was kind of a given.

I walked up to the receptionist's desk. "Excuse me, miss?" I said politely, while Don, Izzy, and Jonathan waited near the door.

"Yes?" the receptionist said, smiling tentatively at me.

"I'm looking for a..."

_Steven Batchelder, or Cogilium Incorporated. I'm not sure which, _Gladys said quietly.

"... for a Steven Batchelder. He's working for Cogilium Incorporated."

"Why should I say you're calling?" she asked politely.

"I'm interested in some of Cogilium's services," I lied.

"He's in a business deal at the moment, so I'll have his secretary speak to you about that possibility, is that all right?" she said.

Jackpot.

"Yes, that's perfect," I said.

"His office is right on down the hall," she said, pointing helpfully.

"Thanks."

I stepped back to confer with the others.

Jonathan wanted to come with me. So did Izzy.

"No," I told them. "I'll do this part alone."

I should have seen it coming, but I didn't.

I left them and walked down the hall, looking at the nameplates on the doors until I found COGILIUM INC.

I opened the door and stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind me, so I'm pretty sure the others either didn't hear me screaming or were persuaded by the receptionist that they were hearing things.

If you paid attention to the story of my daughter's life at all, you'll remember that Itex phased out the Erasers in favor of Flyboys. These are basically killer robots. On a good day, even a human can take them out easily.

If he's not, say, suddenly surprised by his own gullibility when he steps into a room full of them.

Needless to say, it was only a few minutes before I went down for the count -- a few very _long,_ very _painful_ minutes.

I'm sure you'd rather not hear the details, so let me just put it this way: things got broken.

* * *

I woke up on the floor of a helicopter, with blood clotting on my cheek. Since Flyboys don't bleed, it had to be mine.

These had _definitely_ not been the best two days of my life, I reflected. Five days ago, I had been happy -- but God, what a long time it had been since then.

God, what an eternity ago.

_You weren't really happy,_ said Gladys. _You were content. Think about it. The moment really isn't all that great -- not this one, anyway -- but haven't you had a lot of fun in the last two days?_

_It hurts to breathe, Gladys,_ I said, pleased that thinking doesn't require moving anything. Otherwise it would have hurt like hell.

_But you've met me, right? And you met Jonathan and Crane -- by the way, he says hi -- and Izzy and Don. Even James. I think you'll agree with me, Jeb. You're having fun._

_I think I have a broken rib,_ I said.

_You're doing that deliberately,_ Gladys said playfully. _Just to bother me. I know you have at least two broken ribs,_ she added more seriously. _But you're playing up the drama of your situation. Be honest -- there's no audience that's going to give you a standing ovation for most dramatic performance._

_OK, I can see your point there,_ I said, before the helicopter, well, _stopped moving._

"Yeah, I've got him," I heard a voice say. Sounded like an Eraser's voice to me. I couldn't see the person talking, so I couldn't really pass final judgment on whether it was an Eraser or not.

"Really? I can do that? OK!" the voice said.

I'm betting you can guess what happened next.

Rather than just _land the damn helicopter_, they just paused for a moment _and threw me out._

My life is kind of like that sometimes.

By which I mean sometimes it seems like everything's going perfectly, in beautiful order... and then some days, _nothing makes any fucking sense._

I hit the ground hard -- because I didn't have any warning -- but strangely it didn't hurt. Neither did anything else.

_I'm short-circuiting your pain receptors,_ Gladys said. _Tell me if you want to start feeling it again._

_I would,_ I said. _But I don't think I do._

I had landed on a ... helicopter pad?

And I was _feet_ from my sister, who was wearing a trademark smug Batchelder grin. (I should know what one looks like, after all. I grin like that, too.)

"Come on downstairs," she said.

And she actually _helped me up._

Wow.

I'm betting you can feel the familial love just _baking_ off of the page.

She led me down two flights of fire stairs to a basement that looked like a bunker, and shot me a look as soon as I was off the stairs. "Don't try anything," she said.

"I won't," I promised.

OK, so basically I was lying, but "trying anything" in my position probably would have consisted of dying just to spite her.

"Why am I here?" I demanded, putting one hand on the wall to steady myself.

"We wanted you to participate in our victory," she said, voice sweet as a mouthful of powdered sugar. (I speak from experience there. It's worse than the same amount of cinnamon. You might not throw up, but your mouth _will_ taste like syrup for hours. _Hours,_ I tell you.)

"That's bullshit and we both know it," I said.

_I'm behind you on that one hundred percent,_ Gladys piped up.

"Who was that?" my brother's voice demanded, and I saw him waiting by the far wall, next to a _huge_ flat-screen television. Evil spares no expense.

_My name is Gladys!_ she said brightly. _What's yours?_

"Marian, can you hear that?" Steve asked.

"You're both nutcases," she said. "Men."

This was supposed to be funny, but no one laughed. Well. Of the three other people there, one was an assemblage of boxes with organs in them, one had been tossed around like a rag doll, and the other one was a self-teaching AI who was still learning the entire concept of humor.

Also, it wasn't that funny in the first place.

Gladys was, at least, entertaining.

"Why am I here?" I repeated.

"I'm initiating the By-Half Plan," my sister said. "_Finally_."

Obviously, this last one was targeted at me.

Because I'd been the one who stopped her last time.

Proud? Who, me?

"She's about to release the virus," my brother said in his distinctive monotone voice. And in case you're wondering -- he even sounded like that _before_ the accident. He's always been just that boring.

"You can't do that!" I shouted. Which hurt. A lot. Ow.

"Why not, Jacob?" Marian said.

"This isn't a movie," Steve said. "You can't save the day."

"Yes, I can!" I said.

"No, you can't," Marian said. "Life isn't like the movies. The good guys win. Sometimes. But you can never tell who's on the side of good and who's on the side of evil. Someday they'll talk about how I saved the world."

"No, they won't," I said. Suddenly I felt tired.

"Why not?" Steve asked. "It's not like you can change history alone."

"Yes, I can," I said. "And I won't let them. Gladys, cut his power!"

_Calling your attacks?_ Gladys said.

But she did it.

And just like that, he was dead.

Very anti-climactic, I know.

_You know you didn't have to say that out loud, _Gladys said. And I noticed that time seemed to have slowed down outside my head. Things moved at a more relaxed pace.

_I know,_ I said.

_Good. Now finish the job. Gun in the lowest desk drawer on the right. Aim and squeeze the trigger._

_She's my sister,_ I said.

_That doesn't change what she's about to do._

So while my sister tapped keys on a laptop, making the final preparations to destroy the world, I walked across the room and got the gun out of her desk drawer.

"Marian?" I said. "I have something to show you."

She turned around and I shot her.

Gladys was still dampening my pain, but the pain had gotten so intense itself that I wasn't feeling much of anything anymore.

Marian just looked at me -- and for a heartbeat, it felt like time hadn't just slowed, but _stopped._ Then she said, "Mother always liked me best," drew her own gun, and shot _me_.

And then she collapsed to the floor.

I heard Gladys wail inside my head -- a cry of despair. For me. It was touching... almost comforting, in a way.

_Can't I fix it? _she asked.

I dragged myself over to the wall and leaned against it, letting it take my weight. I could hear crashing upstairs -- doubtless that was everyone else. The cavalry had arrived. So to speak.

_No,_ I said, smiling even though I knew she couldn't see it. _This isn't something you can fix, Gladys. I'm sorry._

_I've got to do something, though! _she said, panicking.

_No, Gladys,_ I said. _You can't help me. Not anymore._

_But I'll die, too!_ she cried.

_No, you won't,_ I told her firmly. _What you said about having a secure backup all that time ago -- it was true. I know it was. Even when I die, you don't have to._

_I've never talked to anyone but you,_ she said solemnly.

_Yes, you have,_ I said. _Remember, you talked to James shortly after we met for the first time. And Steve could hear you. You'll be fine, Gladys. Don't worry about me._

_I mean, I don't want to leave you,_ she said.

_That's very sweet, Gladys,_ I said, trying to keep my inner "voice" steady.

_Can't I do something?_ she pleaded.

_No, Gladys,_ I told her firmly. _The best thing you can do now is leave me._

_Why?_ she asked._ Surely I don't have to leave you. Right?_

_You have to leave me, _I said. _And don't call me Shirley._

She giggled nervously. _That was a joke._

_Yes, it was,_ I said.

_You don't have to die,_ she said. _With medical attention, you could survive this._

_Gladys, be realistic now._

_I am being realistic!_ she said.

_No, you're not. You're letting your... feelings for me influence your thinking. Think about it realistically._

She was silent.

_The nearest hospital is too far for me to reach in time. And if my... friends move me, they will probably kill me from the shock to my system. I'm sorry, Gladys,_ I said, _but you can't help this time._

_You said you didn't want to die,_ she said, childishly. _You said that no one wanted to die._

_That was a long time ago, _I said.

"Jeb?" Jonathan said. He walked into my field of vision and knelt. "Oh, no," he said softly. "Can you move?"

I shook my head. "I don't think so."

"What happened?" he asked.

"Marian had a gun," I said. "She shot me. Then I shot her."

I didn't mention the part where I'd also been tossed around like a rag doll -- a rag doll in increasing amounts of _pain_ -- by Flyboys.

Or the part where I had probably broken something important after being tossed out of a helicopter.

Or the part where, just like George Lucas, I was altering the truth to make myself look better.

"OK," Jonathan said. "OK. We're going to get you out of here."

"No, don't," I said.

"You want to live, don't you?" said Jonathan.

_Jeb?_ asked Gladys timidly.

"No," I said.

_Gladys,_ I said tiredly, _I think by now I'm more than ready to die._

_Don't say that,_ said Gladys. _You should have at least thirty years ahead of you. You're not ready to die._

"I think I'd be all right with dying," I said.

"Jonathan?" said Izzy's voice. "That's the last of them."

"Get over here," Jonathan said.

She walked over, accompanied by Don.

"Where's Crane?" Jonathan asked.

"Outside," Don said. "What's happened?"

I was slumped against the wall, and I struggled to pull myself into at least a semblance of a sitting position.

_I'm sorry, Gladys_, I repeated.

_You said that,_ she said, sounding like a frightened little girl -- and, by some definitions, she _was_ a little girl.

_I'm very tired,_ I said.

_Don't leave me_, she said.

"Jeb's... hurt," Jonathan said.

"To be more specific," I said, "I'm dying."

"Can't we get him to a hospital?" Izzy said, addressing Jonathan. I felt neglected.

"I don't think... I should be moved," I said.

"Why not?" Don asked. "What the hell have you got to lose?"

"I'd rather not disappoint you like that," I said.

"Yeah, 'cause that's totally the gentlemanly thing to do," Izzy said. "Listen, Mister Chivalry. We're not going to let you die in a basement evil lair just because you don't want to die in an ungentlemanly way."

"Listen," I said, "we can compromise. Call an ambulance instead of trying to move me yourselves."

"OK, OK," Don said. "We'll go do that. I'll leave you with him," he said to Jonathan. "Don't let him die on us."

Don dragged Izzy with him to the other side of the basement, where there was a phone on what had once been Steve's desk. Or so I guessed. I'd never seen the basement before.

Jonathan leaned closer to me. "I've got a pill with me," he whispered. "You can die here, without any pain. They don't have to know."

_But I'll know!_ Gladys cried. _Please don't leave me,_ she begged.

_I'm truly, truly sorry, Gladys,_ I told her. _But it's time for me to leave you._

_I don't want to be alone, _she said quietly.

_No one really does, Gladys,_ I said. _But you can take it. I know you can._

"I accept," I whispered in return.

_This isn't my choice,_ I told her. _Not really. You can't choose when to have a system crash, or if you'll ever have one. You could have immortality if you were careful, Gladys._

_It wouldn't be worth it without you to talk to,_ she said.

_I'm glad you think so, _I said. _Really, I am. But I can't stop my dying now, not any more than you could stop an ongoing system crash._

_I'm going to miss you,_ she said.

_Your creators would be very proud of you, I'm sure,_ I said. _But there's nothing you can do now. You can't stop me from dying._

_I wish I could, _she said bitterly.

_I know you do,_ I told her.

Jonathan gave me the little capsule. "It's cyanide," he whispered, watching Don on the phone across the room.

"I appreciate the little joke there," I murmured.

_Gladys?_ I asked.

_Yes?_ She sounded almost as if she'd been crying.

_I'm sorry. But it's time for me to go now._

_You're going to leave me?_

_I'm afraid so, dear Gladys._

I heard her sniffle. _I don't want you to go... but... I think I'll be OK._

_Good._ I wished, more than ever, that I had the ability to physically comfort her. Gladys was the only program I'd ever "known" that I wanted, desperately, to be human. And who probably wanted the same for herself.

_I'll miss you, Jeb._

_I'll miss you too, Gladys. If I can._

It was such a little thing, that cyanide capsule.

Such a small thing, and yet so important.

"Thank you," I told Jonathan.

_Goodbye,_ Gladys said timidly.

_Gladys? _I said.

_I'm still here,_ she answered.

_Don't be afraid, _I told her.

And then, before I could go back on my decision, I swallowed the capsule.

I'll bet you saw that one coming from a mile away.


	9. Gladys Flips Out

Nine: Epilogue / Gladys Flips Out

* * *

_"And in the ear of every anarchist_

_That sleeps but doesn't dream,_

_we must sing, we must sing, we must sing."_

_

* * *

_OK, honestly, I didn't know I'd get here this fast. I expected to take a lot more time getting here -- and I thought more was going to happen.

But life -- well, life hates to play by the rules.

So in apology for that, here is the gestational process that produced _After Dark_.

The seed came out of a plot idea some brilliant bastard had on the MR forums. (Essentially, that the Director's company merges with the Uber-Director's, and oh by the way, Jeb, the Director, and the Uber-Director are all siblings.)

I took all October to plot out the details and... let's just say the Eraser subplot did _not_ happen. (Also, Crane's middle name was Von Doom, and Gladys's _personality_ kind of appeared in planning as an easily distractable Flyboy, Bounce.)

Then November hit, and surprisingly, _After Dark_ turned out to be the easiest novel to write. So I worked my ass off on it -- and completed it in four days. Yeah, my wrists hurt. (Also, there are spiders crawling down the walls from the sleep deprivation. Should I be worried?)

Gladys -- who is _definitely_ my favorite character from this year -- took me by surprise on the last day of writing, and pretty much came out of nowhere.

And that's the whole story -- which means I now have an "I'd like to thank the Academy" laundry list to read.

Apologies to the creators of Portal and the creator of "Gnoph" -- Gladys is _heavily_ based on GlaDOS and Lyss. (Yes, I definitely recommend both game and webcomic. Fans of Gladys's crazy-AI half will probably like GlaDOS, and the borrowing of Jeb's "processing power" is an inept homage to the gnophs of "Gnoph", and how they run their own programs.)

Credit is due to Nancy Tucker and Bright Eyes, whose "Everything Reminds Me Of My Therapist" and "At The Bottom Of Everything", respectively, have served as soundtrack, and whose lyrics I took the _substantial_ liberty of quoting from (in "Gladys Sings" and this chapter, obviously).

And thanks must go to carino and tanyart, who have been the best cheerleaders anyone could have -- and in carino's case, who also pushed me to finish the damn thing until I finally gave in, gave up on sleep, and _did_. Go have some cake. You deserve it. Gladys sends her blessing.

So... there we are. After the lyrics, I guiltily present an alternate ending, in which Gladys gets violent, as apology for this not-a-chapter.

Thank you for your time. And for waiting quite a while while I _finished_ the alternate ending.

* * *

_"Into the caverns of tomorrow with just our flashlights and our love,_

_we must plunge, we must plunge, we must plunge."_

* * *

I stepped into the room and I heard Gladys scream.

It was full of Flyboys -- twelve or fourteen, sitting in chairs like they were actually waiting for an appointment.

The door shut behind me, and they all got up from their chairs.

_Oh no, you don't_, Gladys said sharply, and there they all lay, dead on the floor. Or at least, deactivated.

_What did you do?_ I asked, prodding one of the... corpses with the toe of my shoe.

_I snow-crashed them,_ she said modestly.

_I'm sorry?_

_I took out their processing power,_ she said. _Your computer's screen goes blue when it crashes, yes? I crashed them so hard at such a fundamental level that, figuratively, they couldn't even display the blue screen... all they could display was "snow". Like on your television._

_Does that mean they'll reboot?_ I asked.

_No,_ she said. _First I snow-crashed them. Then I wiped their memory banks. Trust me, they're not coming back._

_You can do that? And that fast?_

_I was panicking,_ she said shyly. _Also I dipped into your processing power again. You blacked out for about ten seconds while I was snow-crashing them. But I won't do it again, I swear,_ she added hastily.

_That's good, Gladys_, I told her, and tried the door. Locked.

"That's weird," I muttered.

_Do you want me to see if I can unlock it?_ Gladys asked.

_Go ahead,_ I said. _I think it's just an analog lock, though._

_Which would indicate that someone locked it from outside because we're in here._

_Exactly._

She was silent for a moment, and then said, _You're correct. It's either an analog lock, or someone has physically blocked the door from outside._

_Anything you can do?_

_No. It's weird. I'm not getting any electrical pulses from his brain -- and I can detect electrical pulses of very low amplitude._

_So that means he's dead,_ I mused.

_No, there's definitely a living person out there. It means that his electrical output is very well masked, or neutralized by something._

_What could that be?_ I asked.

_I'm not sure._

_So we're screwed,_ I said.

_Pretty much,_ she said humorlessly.

_Wait,_ I said. _You're saying the electrical output is dampened. By what? Can you even tell?_

_I'm not sure,_ she said. _Something heavy seems like it's leaning on the door on the other side -- and probably trying to keep us from getting through._

_That's usually why one leans on a door._ I paused. _Can you "see" outside the room?_

_I don't think so,_ she said coolly._ As far as I'm aware, I can't see at all._

_Let's go kick some ass,_ I said.

_Good idea!_ Gladys said. I couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic or not.

_Not a hint of sarcasm there,_ she said. _None at all. There's some here, though. Oh, and you can borrow a gun from a Flyboy._

_Me? Fire a gun?_ I asked, even as I bent down to try and find one. _You must be joking. Anyway these Flyboys have their guns built into them._

_Mmm,_ Gladys mused._ That's not good._

_Can you help me?_ I said. _You said you could do all those things..._

_I was programmed for use in combat,_ she said absently. _I can't actually make you superhuman, but like I said, I can dampen or eliminate the pain you feel. (But that has drawbacks: I have to alert you in situations where pain would normally suffice.) That's about all I can actually do. That I know of._

_Thank you, Gladys,_ I said.

_You're welcome,_ she said cheerily. _Shall we go, then?_

_All right,_ I said.

I twisted the doorknob, and gently pushed the door open. It swung out into the hall without any resistance, but Gladys stopped me before I could step out. Literally. I was frozen in place.

_He's behind the door,_ she said quietly. _They always are. _(_Sorry about the manual override.)_

_Any advice?_ I said, glancing through the crack between the door and the wall. Yep. Something tall and wide was standing there, politely waiting for oh SHIT

I froze in my tracks as something big, hairy, and _angry_ swung down from the ceiling, but Gladys once again came to the rescue.

_Going to override now,_ she said, her voice calm.

_Great,_ I said. _Tell me when it's over._

_Will do._

_Gladys?_ I said when it was over. _My hands are sore._

_I'm sorry about that,_ she said apologetically. _You really should carry a weapon._

_As exciting as my life may be,_ I responded, wiping my hands gingerly on my shirt, _I usually don't need one._

_True,_ she said. _But given all the possibilities, it's a wise thing for you to do._

_There are quite a few wise things I don't do,_ I said._ It makes things more interesting._

In the end, we never did get to Steve and Marian on time. Someone else got there first, apparently.

Of course, they were clever enough to make it look like an accident. But seriously?

It takes _talent_ to accidentally electrocute yourself with a toaster.


End file.
